Chapter 45: Ronan

"Did you skip Sharing Circle today?"


James glances away. We haven't spoken since that day in the Arts and Crafts cabin, but I feel like his absence warrants a conversation. Also, Clancey and his friends are busy getting high by the docks, so I'm stranded in the Mess Hall. There's no way I'm eating lunch alone— at Lightlake, sitting by yourself is just one step towards becoming a social pariah— and I still don't feel comfortable sitting with Finn and his friends, so I choose a spot at James' table instead.


"Maybe," he says, in a voice that doesn't exactly sound like his.


"Why? You never skip activities."


"I wasn't feeling well," he replies shiftily. "My... pollen allergies are acting up."


I can tell that he's lying. I always know when people are lying to me. James has a particular tell— he rubs his thumb against his leg when he's being dishonest. I see him doing it now. "Bullshit," I say, throwing myself down into the chair next to him. James still won't look at me; he even inches away from me, like he's uncomfortable with our closeness. He's never acted like this before. It's weird, and the weirdness makes me even more determined to get answers. "What's the real reason you skipped?"


"Ronan, please. I'm not in the mood for an interrogation."


"Tell me the truth and I'll leave you alone."


He shakes his head.


"You're freaking me out a little, man. Are you sick? Are you dying? Just tell me what's wrong and I'll quit bugging you. Promise."


And then James finally looks at me. But there's something wrong with his face— he's not smiling. He's not smiling at me, and it's because he has a split lip and a black-eye bigger than the one I had at the beginning of the summer.


He's not smiling, because someone beat him up.


James grimaces at the stunned expression on my face. "At least it wasn't a hot-pink suitcase, right?"


"Who...." I haven't even finished my sentence when the realization hits me. "Clancey. I'm going to kick his ass."


"Please, Ronan, just let it be. You'll only make things worse—"


"No. No way." The bruises on James' face seem to take up the entire room, the entire state of Alaska. "We can't let him get away with this." My head is shaking, and it feels like the rest of my body is, too. When I blink I see the dried blood on his lips. The broken veins on his temple. I don't remember the last time I ever felt this furious... Strike that. I totally do. I remember feeling the same way on the night I fought with Sabrina. It was the only time I ever really screamed at my mother, the only time I had the guts to stand up to her. I'd never been bold enough. But I was then.


Thinking about that night makes me realize how lame the bullies at this camp seem compared to Sabrina. My mother could ruin my life with the snap of a finger; the worst these campers could do is ruin my nose with a well-placed fist. I'm not afraid of anybody here. Why should I be? The campers here are the equivalent of the Stay Puft monster from Ghostbusters. My mother is Godzilla in human form.


"You have that look in your eyes," James points out. "Please, please don't do anything rash."


"I'm never rash. I always have a plan."


"What's your plan, then?"


"Punch Clancey Cleavon in his ugly fucking face."


James turns white as a sheet. "Ronan, no! He'll beat you up too."


I rise sharply to my feet, knocking James' fork off the table. "Not if I deck him first," I say, already preparing to storm away. I've never truly understood the word bloodthirsty until now— but it is a thirst, and I feel like the equivalent of a man lost in the desert.


But before I can make it very far, James grabs me by the wrist and tugs me back down into the chair. "No. You already got your nose broken once this summer; you don't need to mess up your face again. I can deal with this by myself, okay? I'm used to sorting out my own problems."


"You goddamn hitch-hiker. That's not sorting out your problems— that's just creating new ones." And then I hear myself say something I've never said before: "Fine, then. If you won't stand up to Clancey, I'll just get the counselors involved."


"Ronan, you hate the counselors."


"Not as much as I hate Clancey Cleavon."


"No— just no! If Clancey finds out that you snitched— and he will find out— he'll beat us both into a bloody pulp. You'll only make matters worse by going to the counselors, and you know it."


"I don't care if he kills me," I say. "I'll kill him first."


"That's not how it works...."


"Not in my experience."


James clamps his hands down on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. "Remember the day we met?" I can tell that this is a rhetorical question because he spews out words without waiting for a response. "When I was making fun of Clancey's haircut, and you told me to stop or else he'd beat me up? Well, I finally got what was coming to me. Someone must have overheard our conversation in the Arts and Crafts cabin because he knew everything. He knew why I came to Lightlake. I should have been ready for this. I deserve what happened to me."


I nudge his shoulder. "Don't say that. Don't fucking say that. Clancey is an asshole, okay? It's not your fault he hit you. It's his fault, and he's gonna pay for it."


"Ronan...."


"The next time you try to blame yourself for someone else's asshole actions, I'll be the one giving you the black eye, got it? No more throwing yourself under the bus. No more dealing with it by yourself. And, for the love of God, no more goddamn hitch-hiking."


"That's twice now you've brought up my hitch-hiking. I'm starting to think you have a problem with it."


I raise my fist— joking— and James laughs and throws up his hands in mock self-defense. "Okay, okay!" he cries. "I hear you, loud and clear. No more hitch-hiking."


"And no more blaming yourself, either."


"Got it."


"You better. Or you'll be sorry."


James smiles. It looks painful.


I fold my arms over my chest and glare across the room at Clancey's table. It's empty now, but I can still see him laughing and joking around with his buddies, and it occurs to me that I've never wanted to hurt someone more in my life. "I'll make this right," I say, still stewing in my leftover fury. "Without punching him in the face."


"Why?"


"Because revenge is a dish best served cold to an asshole with an oversized ego."


James waves me away. "I know from first-hand experience that Clancey is a jerk who has earned some righteous comeuppance, no doubt about it. I wasn't asking you about him. I was asking you why you're so determined to help me."


"You're my friend," I say. "Duh."


"That's it? You're willing to go head-to-head with Clancey because we're friends?"


"What, is friendship not a good enough reason for you? I thought you were all on board the friend-mobile. Wasn't that your mission for the summer— to be buddies?"


"No, being friends is fine, I just—" James scratches at the cartilage of his ear. "I thought you were going to say something else."


"Like what?"


"Nothing. Forget it."


I frown at him. "Okay."


James is blushing now, and I think I might have the slightest idea why. "If this is your way of apologizing for what happened with Jasper, I don't—"


"It's not. I know that I was a jerk to Jasper, and I should probably make it up to him, but right now I've other things on mind."


"Things like revenge?"


"Sure. Why not?"


James shakes his head at me, but I can see that he's smiling.


Without warning, a lunch-tray piled high with an assortment of sandwiches, all in varying stages of sogginess, slams down on the table next to us. "Hey, losers," says Giselle, popping a potato chip between two cherry-red, lip-gloss smeared lips. "Ugh. These are so fucking stale. Anyway, what's up? I never see you sitting at our table."


This last part is directed at me. "I guess I was looking for a change of scenery," I drawl, not sure how much Giselle overheard from our conversation. "I didn't realize your table was so exclusive."


"Oh, it's not. Everyone is welcome here. And I mean everyone." Giselle casts a meaningful look over at James' energetic roommate, Daniel. "How many grapes do you think are in his mouth right now?"


"At least fifteen," James reasons.


"That boy is going to need jaw surgery if he keeps shoving food in his mouth. Sometimes I wonder if parents sent him to Lightlake just so they wouldn't have to always watch him chew with his mouth full." Giselle crunches down on a second potato chip, then wrinkles her nose in disgust. "God, these are more than awful. Anybody want the rest of my bag?"


"I will!" exclaims Daniel eagerly, more than a few grapes popping out of his mouth and spilling out across the table.


"Ew, not you. Go sit somewhere else if you're going to act like a rabid squirrel." Giselle shoots Daniel a dirty look before tossing her bag of chips into the trash. "You know, it's times like these that make the summer feel never-ending."


"I wouldn't fret about it too much," James reassures her. "Today is June 21st, the summer solstice. We're halfway there."


"Living on a prayer," I finish for him.


Giselle looks abruptly alarmed, and I doubt it's because of my Bon Jovi reference. "Wait, it's already June 21st?"


"Yup. I've been keeping track of the days on my calendar."


"Oh...." Giselle blinks at James like he just slapped her across the face. "Oh."


"Is something wrong?" he asks. "You look—"


She leaps to her feet, dumping the rest of her lunch into the trash. (By the look of those soggy sandwiches, it was probably for the best.) "I've got to leave," she says hastily. Her voice cracks on the last syllable, like she's holding back tears. "Have a pleasant lunch."


And then she's gone.


"— like you've seen a ghost," James ends.


We turn to stare at each other. His black-eye looks even more bruised than it did before.


"I wonder what made her run off like that," James says, frowning to himself. "I hope it wasn't something I said."


"Maybe she forgot a birthday," I offer.


"Doubt it. She looked pretty upset. Still...."


Out of nowhere, a small purple object flies and hits James in the face. Spluttering in disbelief, he shakes the object out of his collar and holds it up for inspection. "It's a grape," he concludes.


On the other side of the table, Daniel crows with laughter. "Dude, I got you so good! Talk about a fucking bull's eye—"


"That's a mark, Bailey," Karen warns as she passes by the table.


But not even the counselor's intervention can wipe the smile from Daniel's face. "Hey, James! Throw it back to me, I'm gonna try catching it with my mouth!"


Sighing, James obliges. The grape bounces off his roommate's forehead, but Daniel looks thrilled. "Do it again! I'm sure I can catch it this time!"


"I'll leave you to it," I say to James, lifting my tray off the table. The watery spaghetti and even waterier tomato sauce that Sun-Lee served to me at the beginning of lunch has lost all its appeal. Maybe I'll help myself to a bag of stale potato chips, and head over to the Arts and Crafts cabin to work on one of my panels. (I've been trying to draw the Superman comics from memory. Now that I've read and re-read them a million times, it's not all that challenging.) "Think about what I said earlier."


"I will— Daniel, to your left! Oh, dear... now he's falling out of his chair...."


We watch as Daniel tumbles to the ground in a mess of limbs and grapes, a modern-day Dionysus, cackling maniacally the whole way down.


"That's a shame," I remark. "Poor kid can't afford to lose many more brain cells."


James gazes down at his fallen roommate in wry exasperation. "Maybe if he knocks out a few more he'll finally shut up." Then he turns his gaze on me, his brown eyes the color of honeycomb and prehistoric amber and dust churning through the air on back-country roads. "Meet me tonight?" he asks, but it's not really a question, because he can already read the answer on my face. "We can talk more about those plans to punch Clancey Cleavon in the face."


"I'll check my schedule," I reply, and his black-eye nearly disappears into the folds of his grin.

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